Through the Dark
by Lingering Lilies
Summary: Why would Brittany ever leave Santana after eight solid, happy years together?


Why would Brittany ever leave Santana after eight solid, happy years together?

This is a one-shot companion piece to "Taking the Long Way" from Brittany's perspective, set between chapter 39 "Samson" and chapter 44 "Flinch." Many readers were curious what was going on with Brittany during that time, so I decided to indulge myself by writing it out.

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><p>AN: In Taking the Long Way I pair each chapter with a song. This story's **soundtrack** is KT Tunstall's "Through the Dark."

This story would not have happened without my Beta, HoneyFigsAndDarkChocolate, constantly badgering me. Thank you for believing in me, my dear. You are a veritable Henry Higgins to my hopeless Eliza Doolittle.

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><p>.:.<p>

**Through the Dark**

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><p>I crane my neck against the windowpane of the taxi as it pulls up to our apartment complex in the early morning light. Your car isn't in your parking spot, and I'm a little glad. During the overnight bus ride, I couldn't wait to get home and see you, but as I draw closer I realize I need a few minutes to just breathe and feel like I'm home again. I pay the driver and pull my suitcase toward the stairs. I tell my feet they have to move up each step as time slows down. The doormat is still there, but the dried flowers I hung on the door are gone. I feel a hiccup in my stomach. I clutch the sunflower in my hand. What if you didn't want me to come back? What if taking down the dried flowers meant I was no longer welcome? I left in April, and it's August now. It doesn't seem like it's been four months; it was either four years or four hours.<p>

Time went by differently for me, I guess.

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><p><strong>Delilah<strong>

* * *

><p>Four months ago, my side of the bed had become a crater. I wanted to get up, but I just felt so heavy. I was full of lead. I knew I had to try, to at least make a salad or some sandwiches. You promised you would come home for lunch, and you never break your promises. You would be home soon… but maybe I could just rest for a few more minutes.<p>

I managed to pull myself out of bed and into the kitchen like taffy. I opened the fridge and stared. I hadn't gone shopping this week, but we had the ingredients for tuna salad with celery. I took out the celery and put it on the cutting board, pulling off a few stalks. I stared at the dirt flecks in the hollows of the stalks for a moment. I shuffled to the sink and let the water run over the celery, but without any scrubbing, the dirt didn't come off. I sighed and let the water run over my limp hands that could barely grasp the green shoots. The water soaked into my arms as if they were sponges, making them heavier. Finally, I shut off the water and dropped the celery on the cutting board. The water splattered across the wood, flung from the leafy ends. I looked along the counter for the knives, even though I knew where they were. I lifted my arm that felt soaked to the bone and pulled out a medium blade. I held it parallel to the cutting board. The blade flashed.

If I made just one little cut would the lead drip out of me?

I heard your car motor pull up outside. I dropped the knife in the sink and its clattering echoed throughout the whole apartment. I slumped back to the bedroom.

_Why are you still in bed, Britt? Can't you just get up?_ you whined when you walked in the bedroom._ I'm tired, too. I know how it feels._

Have you ever started making a meal and had the urge to slice yourself instead of the food?

"No, you don't."

_For God's sake, B. You're not gonna feel good if you just lay there all day. You have to get up and do stuff if you want things to get better. It's common sense!_

You were angry and I was frozen. Why weren't you melting me like you used to?

_B? Are you ignoring me?_ you snarled.

The picture of the knife in the sink flashed in front of me. If you weren't warm I couldn't tell you the things in my head. I was so cold I started to shake.

_Britt, what is it?_ Your voice was closer and quieter.

I wanted the knife to go away but it wouldn't. If I could have erased it, I would. Please believe me. I choked as I tried to breathe.

"You've never made me feel stupid before."

You touched my face and your hands were warm, but I still didn't melt.

_Oh, Britt… Britt, baby…_

I looked at you but I couldn't see you. I saw the whites of your eyes and the curve of your cheek, but I didn't see _you_.

_You're not stupid. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry._ You put your head next to mine on the pillow. _You can stay here all day if you want. Let me make it better._

But you couldn't, so I said you couldn't.

_Tell me what to do._

I wished I knew. "Just go back to class."

As I listened to your car pull away I decided that I had to leave. I couldn't stay here with the ice in my skin and the knife in the sink and the crater in my bed. I had to wipe the slate clean.

.:.

_I'm home, Britt..._

I knew you would be soon. I wished I had been able to leave before you saw, but all my movements were as if I was underwater. I shut my suitcase; maybe if you didn't see what I'd packed you would let me go. But that didn't make any sense; why would you care if I took a few of my own clothes? I couldn't even look at you because I didn't know how to tell you about the knife or the crater or the ice and how even _you_ couldn't melt me anymore.

_Britt? Are - are you going somewhere?_

No, I was leaving. Where I was going wasn't the point.

_B?_

"I'm going back to Lima." That was the only other place I knew.

_For the weekend?_

I resented you for reminding me that time continues on indefinitely; there would be a weekend, and then there would be another week. And another after that. Time stretched on forever and I didn't know if I'd be able to keep going with it.

_Are you coming back?_

I had no answers. "I don't know." I looked at you, but I still couldn't see you.

_You're leaving?_

Isn't that what I said?

_Are you… are we breaking up?_

I hadn't thought about it like that. I just knew that it couldn't keep going. "I… I don't know." I looked away, ashamed I hadn't thought of an explanation or a way to tell you how dead I felt inside.

_After almost eight years, Britt?_ Your voice was squeaking and it hurt to listen to, like rusty wheels of a grocery cart. I had to get away.

_What do you need? More time together? A bigger apartment? More money? Couples counseling?_ You were frantic and I adored you for trying, but none of those things would have fixed me.

_I can help you find a job and we can get that cat you want so bad… or we can move back to Lima together, if that's what you want. I'll do anything! Just tell me how to fix it!_

You sounded angry so I looked at the floor. You had only been angry with me a few times, and every time it scared me.

_Where did you go, B?_ you whispered.

I wish I knew. "I'm going back home."

_This is your home. Your home is with me._ You weren't angry anymore, but I was still afraid. I didn't know where home was.

You started crying and I knew I was hurting you, so I turned away. If I wasn't there, maybe I couldn't hurt you. "My taxi is waiting." I pulled my suitcase off the bed. It was so heavy I almost dropped it as I pulled it into the hallway.

You walked behind me and reached out to touch my arm at the door. Your hand was shaking and it was hot. It didn't melt me; it burned, so I pulled away. "Goodbye." I shut the door.

Even walking down the stairs took too much effort. The cabbie took my suitcase and put it in the trunk. I slid into the backseat and slumped down, exhausted. We drove to the bus station in silence. I can't remember what I thought about, or if I had thoughts at all.

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><p><strong>Unprodigal Daughter<strong>

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><p><em>Brittany, is everything okay? What on earth are you doing here at this hour, love?<em>

I had nowhere else to go.

My mouth felt like it was full of peanut butter. I managed to mumble: "I need to rest."

I pushed past my mom into the hallway, dragging my suitcase on its gimpy wheels behind me. I walked to my childhood bedroom and dropped the handle; the suitcase toppled onto the carpet. I crawled into the bed. It wasn't a crater, it was a little cave. I fell asleep.

But sleep hadn't been satisfying for a long time. I never dreamed, I just drifted in and out of life. Sometimes real life felt like dreams; I wondered if things I saw and heard were real.

_I'll be home at six, Britt-Bee. Maybe we can talk then?_

Maybe, dad. But I still have nothing to say.

_She'll tell us when she's ready, Gordon._

.:.

Every time you called my heart felt like a grape under someone's raised foot. Your picture would pop up on the screen, smiling as you lay in the hammock we shared in Arlington, your cheek pressed against mine, although the rest of my face can't be seen. Our summers in Arlington were the last times we really basked in each other. I wished we could go back. But we couldn't, so I just let the phone ring.

.:.

_Want to watch a movie with me, sis?_

Sure, Hayley.

I stared at the people on the screen. They went through the same motions I went through, but they had reasons I didn't.

.:.

_Britt-Bee._ My dad opened the blinds. I_'m worried about you, dollface._

"Nothing to worry about." I'm a liar.

_Where is Santana?_

I rolled over. They knew where you were. "At her house."

_We got an invitation from her a few weeks ago._

Your graduation. "What's today?"

_Sunday the 29th._

"Of May?"

_Yes, darling._

My grape of a heart was crushed and the juice leaked out. When my dad left the room I picked up my phone and sent you a text message.

"Congrats."

And then I regretted it, because I knew I had ruined the day for you.

A few minutes later you called, and I just couldn't bear the thought of hearing the hope in your voice. I had no hope to match it. So I let it ring.

You called again. Your picture popped up on the screen, that smile only I get to see. And I don't deserve that smile. I looked away.

And you called again. I flipped the call to voicemail so your smile couldn't squish me like a grape anymore.

.:.

_Have you talked to Santana?_

"No."

_She calls and asks about you every day._

"Don't answer." I wanted them to stop torturing you and your smile with news of my half-life.

_Are you sure? She's so worried about you. We all are._

I'm not worth worrying about, but I'm not allowed to say that. "I just need to rest."

_Brittany, I've had enough of this. You lie in bed all day. You think you're fooling us by getting up and drifting through the house a few times when we get home from work, but I know you sleep all day. You lie on the couch with Hayley and stare through the TV. You can't stay here like this. I'm taking you to the doctor._

The doctor didn't know what was wrong with me either, so he sent me to a therapist.

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><p><strong>Can't Find Home<strong>

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><p><em>Hi, Brittany, I'm Dr. Lisa.<em>

Dr. Lisa had long blonde hair and a smile that felt real. She shook my hand and gestured for me to sit on the couch. Her office was clean and organized. I liked that.

I'd never been to therapy before, but I'd seen movies where people go to therapy. I thought I was supposed to talk about my childhood. So I started talking.

"When I was little I was really forgetful. I spent a lot of time trying to find things. That's why I'm really organized now."

_What did you lose?_

"Everything."

_What about now?_

Still everything.

I lifted my shoulders to shrug. They were pulled back down, filled with lead.

It was quiet for a minute as I stared at the pattern on the rug.

_When you come to talk to me, it's okay to not be okay._

A little piece of me broke free and I was able to nod without feeling so heavy. I looked up at her. "I'm not okay."

.:.

_What do you know about depression?_ Dr. Lisa asked.

"Just what I feel. Sad or numb all the time. Like nothing matters."

_That must be really painful. Sometimes people who are suffering from depression feel like their thoughts are distorted. Do you ever feel that way?_

"Yeah."

_Can you tell me a little bit about that?_

So I did. For some reason, I felt it was okay to tell Dr. Lisa about the knife in the sink and the crater in my bed and the ice in my chest. She listened and she didn't panic. She didn't gasp or sigh or tell me I was crazy. She just listened.

But you were still too fragile to talk about.

.:.

Dr. Lisa sent me to a psychiatrist, Dr. Epstein. I didn't like Dr. Epstein very much. He was stuffy and all business, but he did seem smart. He gave me a prescription for something called an SSRI. It was a little pink pill I was supposed to take every morning. I didn't want to take it, because I didn't want pills to start thinking for me. I had my own thoughts.

I still went to see Dr. Lisa every week. She explained the pills wouldn't think for me, they would just balance out the chemicals that were already in my brain; like making sure a pitcher of lemonade had the right amount of sugar so it wasn't too sweet and it wasn't too sour. I still wasn't sure, but my mom said I couldn't stay in her house anymore if I didn't. I had nowhere else to go, so I did. She watched me take a pill every day before she went to work. A few weeks went by and when people talked to me, I saw them more clearly and heard what they meant rather than just what they said. But I still wanted to sleep all day.

.:.

"It seems like you feel a little more clear-headed today, Brittany. Am I seeing that right?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm still tired. But now that I can think straight I'm wondering what changed back in New Haven. I don't know if it was my thoughts or something else. But she didn't make me feel warm anymore."

"Who?" Dr. Lisa cooed.

"Santana."

"Who's Santana?"

"She's…"

I looked at my hands as I ran my pointer finger around the place where your ring used to be. My finger suddenly felt cold around the tan line at the base.

"She's the woman I'm in love with."

"Do you want to talk about her?"

"Yes. No."

I sat there, looking at my hands for a minute. Dr. Lisa waited for me to speak. Maybe some people would think that was weird, but I thought it was kind of nice. She just let me think.

"I wasn't happy with her. But I'm not happy without her."

"Do you think you could be happy with anyone?"

"No. How can I be happy with someone if I'm not happy alone?"

"You're a smart woman, Brittany. Some people spend their whole lives figuring that out."

I looked up at her. I gave a shrug. It seemed pretty straightforward to me. But I wished I hadn't mentioned your name. You were still too delicate and I was far from strong.

"How long will this take?" I asked. "How long until I feel normal?"

"I wish I could tell you," Dr. Lisa said, an apologetic look on her face.

"Can I make it go quicker?"

"There are definitely things you can do that might help," Dr. Lisa nodded, "But there are no guarantees. I'm happy to work with you more often if you like. Your insurance will cover up to three times a week. We could do that and maybe you'd see some results more quickly."

So Dr. Lisa and I met three times a week. I really liked going to see her. Even though sometimes I would cry the whole time, she always made me feel like it was okay to not be okay. And at least I was feeling _something_, rather than feeling numb. We talked about things I could do to feel better. Little things, like making a plan for each day: going for a walk, maybe running a little bit; cooking; playing cards with Hayley; writing down my thoughts in a journal. So each day I made a little schedule and tried to stick to it, even if I was still tired.

When I started writing in my journal, I realized everything I was writing was about you. Sometimes it was memories. Sometimes it was feelings. Sometimes it was what I imagined you were doing: cooking dinner, sitting on the couch doing your homework, giving presentations to your classmates in your business suit. But then I remembered you had graduated. Had you started working? I didn't know. It dawned on me that time was moving forward.

So I finally brought it up with Dr. Lisa.

"Do you think I could go back? To Santana, I mean."

"I have no idea what she's feeling or thinking, but you can always try. Is that something you want to talk about?"

"Yeah. I don't know if I can go back, though. I'm… I'm so ashamed. She…" I trailed off.

Dr. Lisa just sat and let me think. I sat for a long time.

When I spoke, it was slow and quiet, as if I were holding you in my arms. "She is the most loving person in the world to me. I don't think I'll ever feel at home without her."

Dr. Lisa gave me a sad smile and let me keep thinking. I stepped back from holding you.

"I feel like I shut that door in her face and I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to try to open it again. I would have so much cleaning up to do and I might not be strong enough yet. It seems safer to stay here."

"Maybe it _is_ safer," Dr. Lisa acknowledged. "But…"

"But it doesn't feel like home. I don't know what to do."

"You don't have to make a decision right now. Or tomorrow or the next day. We can keep talking about this. What do you imagine would happen if you went back?"

"We'd have lots of talking to do. I'd have to tell her everything we've talked about."

"This has been a big journey for you, Brittany. Therapy and healing are very intimate processes. Sometimes it's not possible to convey all of it to someone who isn't here for the whole thing."

"But I'd have to give her a really good explanation."

"You're right, you would. But you would also want to focus on healing the relationship and moving forward, not just what happened for you."

"How would I even start that?"

"I have some ideas. Do you want to talk about them?"

I nodded desperately.

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><p><strong>2020**

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><p>A few weeks later I put on my running shoes. That was part of my plan for the day. I used to love running. I had to really push myself and I got winded easily, but at least I was getting out of the house. As I was looking around, I noticed everything looked different. The lawns were brighter emerald; the houses all looked like they had fresh paint; and the hydrangea bush in front of me was blossoming electric pink bursts. A smile spread across my face as I rounded the corner. I knew in just a moment I'd be able to see my favorite garden in the neighborhood: Mrs. Phillips' sunflowers. When her fence came into view, I was in awe. Had the sunflowers <em>always<em> been that color? They were so vibrant, I felt as if I had only seen them in black and white until then. The first thing I thought was that I wanted to show you just how bright and beautiful they were. I grabbed one and tried to break the stem, but it wouldn't snap. I twisted it, saying a silent apology to the plant and to Mrs. Phillips. It still wouldn't budge, so I pulled it out by the roots. I ran as fast as I could back to my parents' house.

I threw my clothes and shoes and toothbrush back in my suitcase, not even taking the time to fold them. I held onto the sunflower as if our love depended on it as I dashed to the bus station.

I had to come home.

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><p><strong>Your House<strong>

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><p>So here I am on our doorstep. You're not home. The key feels jagged in the lock, as if it were freshly cut, even though I've done this a thousand times before. I take a breath and turn the handle. Frost covers my skin when I open the door.<p>

This isn't our home.

Everything is different. The couch is a different color. There are no books on the coffee table. All of our pictures are gone. The bookcase has been moved. Your shoes are scattered in the entryway, but mine are missing. I look in the kitchen. My apron is gone.

No.

No, no, _no_! Put everything back. Erase the last four months. Take me back to when my shoes were jumbled with yours by the door and the neck of my toothbrush nudged against yours in the cup. Take me back.

I drop the sunflower and press my hands against my head, as if that might wake me up, but it doesn't. Why did I think I could walk back into the frame, back under your arm with my cheek pressed against yours? There is no pause button.

Before tears can fall I reach for the door handle. I can call a cab to take me back to the bus station and you'll never know I was here; I'll only leave my handprint on the doorknob and maybe the scent of my shampoo in the air.

The scent in the air.

That's when it hits me.

I stop with my hand on the doorknob, closing my eyes, inhaling deep into my lungs through my nose. It's you. It's your shampoo and your perfume and the way they blend with your lotion and your makeup and the natural oil of your skin. The smell is everywhere; clinging to the curtains, nestled between the couch cushions, tucked into the blazer hanging by the door. It permeates everything, slowing my breath, melting the frost on my skin. My stomach unclenches and I feel warm. And now I know I can't leave.

I walk down the hall, unsteady on my weak legs. I peer into the dark bedroom. Everything is different in there, too. You moved the bed and closed my closet door. In the bathroom I can see you've cleared my things away. Something is squeezing inside me and it hurts. I have to hunch over, otherwise I think I'll be squished like a grape again. Oh god, it hurts. I drop the handle of my suitcase and falter towards the bed. Glancing around the room, I wonder if I can lie down. I decide I have no choice; I can't stand up anymore. So I collapse onto the mattress. I curl up in your messy sheets and breathe you in. As I breathe, the squeezing loosens. I nuzzle into your pillow and breathe and breathe and breathe. It's almost like you're here.

I know I have to work to put everything back. Not until you're home, of course. Then, if you'll let me, I'll put my things back where they belong and prove to you I still love you and I'll never leave again. I'll ask to put my things where they were – but the only thing I really care about putting back is me.

I walk back to the living room. The sunflower I brought you is lying on the floor, draped over one of your favorite heels. It's looking a little weather-beaten, but so am I. It's all I have to give you. So I take it to the kitchen, trim the end, and put it in a mason jar. I fill the jar with water and set it on the table.

I sit on the couch and wait. I wait and wait and wait. Where are you?

Then the panic starts again. Is there someone else? Are all my things gone so another girl won't have to see them? Was erasing me just another thing you did after I left, a chore like the dishes and the laundry?

I jolt up, heading back to the bedroom. I hold my breath as I walk to the table that was once by my side of the bed. I feel a little looser when I see my trinket box is still sitting there, but I still can't breathe. I reach for it, resting my hand on the lid for a minute. I bite my lip and in my head I whisper _please be there, please be there, please be there._

And it is. My heart squeezes in the good way as I put the ring on my finger and exhale.

It's dark now. I go into the kitchen and rummage in a drawer, pulling out candles. I would have just turned on the lights, but candles will help calm me down. I light as many as I can find and put them around the living room.

And I go back to the couch to wait.


End file.
